


Punch Drunk

by philcollins



Category: Welcome to the Punch (2013)
Genre: Eye Sex, I mean come on, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Movie(s), so much eye sex in that movie, the only way that movie makes sense is if max and jacob are in love, theyre so obviously hot for each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philcollins/pseuds/philcollins
Summary: Lewinsky rubs against him and he’s growing harder despite himself and Lewinsky must be able to feel it through his underwear and makes a little sound, a soft low grunt, and keeps moving, seeking friction from Jake’s body.What the fuck are they doing?





	1. Chicago

 

He taps his pen against the newspaper. “Group of military officers who rule a country after a coup d'etat. Five letters.”

 

“You wot?”

 

He looks over the top of his reading glasses at Max. “I hate that goddamn phrase.”

 

“I know,” Max answers lightly, his face impassive. But Jake can see the glint in his eye.

 

Jake thumps his pen into the tabletop and repeats himself. “Group of military officers who rule a country after a coup d'etat. Five letters.”

 

Max frowns, not looking away from the sports section he’s reading. “The fuck should I know?”

 

Jake grunts and sips his tea. Ugh. Cold.

 

“Junta,” Max provides after a brief moment, still reading football scores - _American_ football. (He claims he understands it, but Jake doubts.)

 

Junta. Yep. “You’re an asshole.”

 

“I know,” Max says again.

 

Jake fills in the puzzle squares and finishes off his tea. He leans back and stretches, takes off his glasses. “I’m getting another. You want anything?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Jake gets up from their table and wends his way around tables crowded with Sunday morning brunchers. Landing at the counter, he waits for the barista to finish what she’s doing and notice him. “An Earl Grey,” he requests when she does. She smiles prettily at him. “And a chocolate croissant, please, dear.”

 

He pays and waits at the far end of the counter for his order, idly watching the barista work too hard for minimum wage.

 

“Why don’t you and your twink boyfriend get the hell outta here?” someone says, close, a bit loud, rousing Jake.

 

He looks.

 

There’s a man standing next to him – Jake’s height but boney under his loose Chicago White Sox t-shirt and faded, ill-fitting jeans. A bad goatee over top bad skin. Sweat-stained baseball hat.

 

It takes Jake a second to realize the guy said that to _him_. “What’d you just say?”

 

“I said. Why don’t you and your twink boyfriend get the hell outta here,” the guy repeats, scowling.

 

Jake blinks and looks at Max and finds this asshole’s statement pretty fucking funny for exactly three reasons:

 

1\. Calling Max a “twink” when Jake thinks of him more like a semi-tame wolverine, entirely capable of biting his hand off at any time.

 

2\. He and Max weren’t actually doing anything gay or whatever just now. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t think of himself as gay, really. And he knows Max doesn’t think of himself that way. They’re just two blokes who live together and fuck each other in an exclusive way. And they never do PDA, not ever, not even man-hugging. This guy’s gaydar game must be _strong_.

 

3\. Looking at Max right now from this perspective, Jake might be able to admit that he does look a little bit twinky. He’s changed his look over the past couple years, different from Detective Max Lewinsky of London. Keeping his hair shorn very close with beard clippers. His love for these ridiculous Elvis sunglasses he found in some thrift shop. His tendency to wear over-sized, stretched-out tank tops that show his arms and a lot of chest, showing off the bulky muscle he’s packed on. It’s not even hot out this time of year.

 

Jake turns his attention vaguely back to the asshole next to him, already over it. He shrugs, tells him, “If you don’t like it, don’t look, mate.”

 

“Looking at the two of you makes me sick to my stomach.”

 

And then Max is suddenly just _there_. He’s heard that and stands toe-to-toe with the asshole, glaring up at him, something like amusement or hate pulling at his sweetly handsome features. Jake can see Max vibrating at a cellular level, about to rip this ugly asshole’s spotty face off, and Jake watches with mild interest, not about to stop him.

 

But then Max turns to him, turning his back on the asshole and reaching up, pulling on the nape of Jake’s neck. Jake goes where Max wants, always, and their mouths meet in the middle, crashing together. Wet and open. Hot and noisy. Hard and soft. Jake sucks the taste of espresso and milk off Max’s tongue.

 

Max pulls away soon enough, licking Jake’s bottom lip as he goes, and turns defiantly back to the asshole, staring up at him stony hard, daring the guy to say something more. The asshole’s face is red, his mouth open. He snaps it shut and spins on his heel and marches right out of the café without a word.

 

“Here, I got you this,” Jake tells Max, handing him a plate with a chocolate croissant upon it, helpfully served up by the barista at some point during all that nonsense.

 

Max bites into it immediately. “My favorite,” he says with his mouth full, flaky pastry on his red lips.

 

Jake gently kisses the pastry away and Max lets him. “I know.”

 

TBC.


	2. Oslo

He steps out of the shower and towels off quickly. The cotton rasps over the stubble on his face, his scalp. He thinks briefly about shaving but dismisses it as unnecessary for the time being. He wraps the towel around his hips and opens the bathroom door, letting a billowing waft of steam out into the hotel suite.

 

It’s light in here now, the heavy blackout curtain pushed back and the pale morning light indistinct behind the sheer secondary drapes. Lewinsky’s awake and up, hunched over in a chair by the open window, smoking, blowing smoke toward the opening. He’s not dressed yet, still in his t-shirt and boxer briefs, and carefully draining the fluid from his knee. But he looks up sharply when Jake steps out of the bathroom.

 

“What?” Lewinsky snaps.

 

Jake pads over to his bed, the Scandinavian hardwood floor cool under his feet. “Just give me a minute and the loo’s all yours,” he offers, grabbing his duffle bag. He hears Lewinsky hiss quietly and looks, watches as the younger man eases the hypodermic needle out of his joint. “How is it today?” Jake asks of the knee.

 

“Just peachy,” Lewinsky bites out.

 

“Looks like the swelling’s gone down.”

 

Lewinsky eyes him coldly. “Fuck you, Sternwood.” Well his _mood_ hasn’t improved any, Jake notes, grimacing. “That Neanderthal you had inside almost snapped my knee in two. I’m gonna have to get it replaced eventually. _Again_. Thanks to you.”

 

Ungrateful little shit. Okay, Jake gets it – Lewinsky’s pissed off and in a lot of pain and at a wildly loose end and is totally bouncing off the walls, having been cooped up in this suite. He’s been pissed and in pain and at a loose end and cooped up for a week solid, since the day Jake spirited him past the prison guards and right on out of that hospital and right on out of the UK. But the guy could be a little grateful, frankly.

 

“My guy had to make it look real to get you into the hospital, that was the plan.“

 

Lewinsky pushes himself up to standing and staggers closer, his face growing red. “ _Your_ plan,” he growls, shoving a finger into Jake’s bare chest. “Your fucking fucked up plan. I didn’t ask you for this! Not for any of this. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

Jake hefts his duffle bag. “Just let me get dressed and we’ll talk about it--“

 

“What’s there to fucking talk about? I’m a _fugitive_ now, goddammit! I didn’t want this!”

 

Jake takes a moment to study the younger man. The storm in his blue eyes. The bruises healing on his face. The scar above his eye, acquired in prison and never properly stitched – not his only newly acquired scar, Jake knows. “You didn’t have to come with me, Lewinsky,” he says gently.

 

“Fuck you!” Lewinsky spits, shoving him hard in the chest, making Jake step back to keep his balance.

 

“I’m getting dressed,” he repeats, turning away, and he’s halfway to the bathroom when he feels Lewinsky shove him again hard in the back. It catches him by surprise. He drops his duffle bag and stumbles into the side table by the sofa, knocking the lamp to the floor. He hears the bulb shatter and some other bit of it snap apart.

 

“Goddammit,” he begins, turning around, only to get an immediate fist in the face and he staggers back again, pain flaring white and red in his head. Lewinsky punches him again, harder, and Jake staggers back again, the side table going over this time, banging loudly against the hardwood.

 

“I’m not fighting you, Lewinsky,” Jake growls, steadying himself.

 

But the little fucker won’t stop and hits him again and Jake knows he’s drawn blood this time, can feel it. He reflexively shoves Lewinsky, not hard, just defensive, but Lewinsky isn’t steady on his wrecked knee and hops back awkwardly. Hops back into the edge of the glass coffee table and goes down hard. Goes right through the glass top.

 

Jake stares down at Lewinsky in horror, the guy lying there inside the table’s metal frame, his face scrunched up in pain, groaning loudly and surrounded by shattered glass. “Shit, are you all right?” he asks, panic rising in his voice. He looks for blood.

 

Lewinsky squints up at him, silent, and Jake carefully pulls the metal frame out of the way, shoving it across the room. He leans over Lewinsky, reaching down to take his arm and help him up. Lewinsky takes hold of his wrist but the guy is totally relentless and is suddenly planting a foot in Jake’s gut and pulling on his arm and Jake finds himself going ass over tits and being somersaulted right over Lewinsky in some sort of mad jiu-jitsu move.

 

Jake’s heel catches something hard as he goes over and he lands flat on his back, all the breath getting knocked out of him, bits of glass digging into his skin. He almost has to laugh – Lewinsky is completely fucking _nuts_.

 

He isn’t sure what he caught his heel on but suddenly the flat screen television on the wall above is crashing down, wires ripping out of the drywall, and Jake tries to roll out of the way before it lands on his legs. He half-succeeds, the TV landing half on his shin, half on the floor, the screen cracking.

 

“Fuck!” he barks, kicking the TV off his leg. His shin throbs painfully but he thinks it’s okay. Just hurts like a bitch. “Lewinsky, what the _fuck_!”

 

He hears glass crunch and shift and suddenly Lewinsky is on top of him, straddling his stomach and punching him and Jake’s hand strikes out, grabbing at Lewinsky’s wrist, managing to catch it before he gets hit again. But Lewinsky swings out with his left hand instead and catches Jake in the side of the head before Jake can grab that hand too. Lewinsky pulls and struggles against his hold, almost getting free, and they grapple before Jake manages to push Lewinsky off. But he doesn’t trust this wild, pugnacious little mad man and jumps on Lewinsky’s back, shoves him facedown on the floor, lying over the guy, pinning his arms to his sides.

 

They lie there a moment, breathing hard, but soon enough Lewinsky starts to squirm and struggle under him, trying to get free. Jake leans in, all his weight on top of Lewinsky but being careful not to press his leg against the guy’s bad knee. “Are you done?” Jake growls, his heart hammering in his chest.

 

“Fuck you,” Lewinsky grunts and bucks hard under him, still trying to break free.

 

“Are you _done_?” Jake repeats, thumping his chest into Lewinsky’s back. But the guy isn’t giving up, still moving under him. “Enough, Lewinsky.” But the guy doesn’t stop squirming. Nutcase. He’ll get tired soon, Jake reckons. He just has to wait him out.

 

But Lewinsky keeps moving. Pressing up into Jake’s body. Over and over.

 

Jake blinks. Details snap into focus:

 

He’s half-hard from their fight.

 

His bath towel came off when he jumped on Lewinsky.

 

Lewinsky’s ass is round and firm inside his underwear.

 

Lewinsky’s pressing his ass up against Jake’s dick.

 

Rubbing against it.

 

The realization spreads through Jake like slow electricity, a lingering shock, a rolling stun that keeps him frozen still.

 

Lewinsky rubs against him and he’s growing harder despite himself and Lewinsky must be able to feel it through his underwear and makes a little sound, a soft low grunt, and keeps moving, seeking friction from Jake’s body.

 

Jake’s hips thrust without him meaning to do it. Lewinsky grunts again and bucks up into him and Jake meets him, thrusts again, sliding his hard cock along the soft cotton valley of Lewinsky’s ass.

 

What the fuck are they doing?

 

Lewinsky makes a higher-pitched sound in his throat and seeks more from him and Jake rubs against him and presses his face on the back of Lewinsky’s neck. He breathes hard, breathes in sweat and soap. They move together again again again, dry-humping hard on the floor like two mindless animals.

 

Soon enough, Jake feels himself about ready and rolls off Lewinsky, flopping onto his back. He feels the sharp pebbles of glass dig in and welcomes the pain even as he takes his throbbing dick in hand and jerks himself to angry, satisfying, searing completion, groaning loudly and coming all over his belly.

 

He blinks and breathes and lies there and rolls his head over to look at Lewinsky, catching the younger man as he comes with a hand inside his underwear, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth bared and his back arched and harsh curse words falling from his lips.

 

It falls quiet but for their breathing. Jake closes his eyes, feeling blank.

 

Hands close around his neck. He slowly opens his eyes. Lewinsky’s face, flushed and stormy, hovers above. The hands tighten.

 

“I should kill you,” Lewinsky says.

 

Jake looks up at him but says nothing. He doesn’t try to push Lewinsky off. Just lies there, dispassionate. He’ll let Lewinsky do whatever he wants to him.

 

Lewinsky’s hands tighten and Jake is losing air. He still doesn’t fight. His vision grays a little at the edges.

 

And Lewinsky lets go. He flops onto his back beside Jake. Jake can feel the sleeve of Lewinsky’s t-shirt brushing his arm.

 

“We have to get out of here,” Jake says. They’ve made a lot of noise and mess.

 

Jake sits up and gets to his feet, feeling sticky and bloody, his face and his shin throbbing. He looks down at Lewinsky and sticks out his hand, waits for Lewinsky to take it so he can pull him up. Lewinsky doesn’t move.

 

Jake leaves him there and picks his way back to the bathroom, grabbing his duffle bag off the floor. He doesn’t bother to close the door, just cleans the come off his skin and the blood off his face and brushes off the little bits of glass embedded into his back and ass. He dresses quickly and goes back into the room. Lewinsky’s still lying on the floor. Jake finds his shoes and pulls them on. He grabs the few things he’s unpacked and shoves them in his duffle, zipping it up.

 

He goes to Lewinsky’s bed and finds the guy’s jeans, lays them out on the mattress. Sets his shoes close by. He finds Lewinsky’s bag and starts packing it for him. The guy’s sort of messy, bits and pieces here and there around the room. At one point, Jake has to step over Lewinsky to retrieve the guy’s knee-draining gear and smoked cigarettes. He empties the hypo into the bathroom sink, flushes the cigarette butts, and finishes packing Lewinsky’s stuff.

 

When he’s done packing, he cleans. He wipes down anything they might’ve touched since the last time he wiped the room yesterday. He finds drops of blood on the floor and wipes those up. He plucks a couple of stray hairs off Max’s pillow and flushes them.

 

Through all of it, Lewinsky doesn’t budge.

 

“Time to go, Lewinsky,” he says when everything’s done.

 

Lewinsky doesn’t budge.

 

Jake knows Lewinsky knows his options here:

 

  1. Go with Jake and run together.



 

  1. Stay here, wait for the police to arrive, and go back to prison.



 

  1. Tell Jake to fuck off and try to run on his own.



 

Jake waits. He can almost hear the precious time ticking away. But he says nothing, just waits.

 

Eventually, Lewinsky moves. With effort, with a lot of grimacing and some cursing, Lewinsky gets up on his feet. Jake doesn’t try to help. He limps over to his bed and grabs the jeans Jake laid out for him, pulling them on over his come-stained underwear. He does up his belt and shoves his feet into his shoes. Jake tosses him his leather jacket and Lewinsky catches it, pulls it on over the t-shirt he slept in.

 

Jake hands Lewinsky his bag and opens the door, holding it for Lewinsky. Lewinsky doesn’t move so Jake goes first and steps into the hallway. After a moment, Lewinsky follows.


	3. Moscow

Jake sips his beer and grimaces. He hates this kind of place. Incredibly loud, thumping so-called dance music – not that he ever dances, not even to _decent_ music. Too hot and too over-crowded with shiny, drunk kids twenty or more years his junior. Nowhere to sit. Overpriced drinks. He’s too old for this shit, to be honest. Hell, even when he was a younger man, he avoided places like this. It was Max’s idea. He insisted they come here, god knows why. He wouldn’t tell Jake. In fact, he’s barely spoken to Jake since the thing that happened the other night, since... Since Jake said something really stupid.

 

Jake sips his beer again and eyes Max over the rim of his glass.

 

Max is leaning back against the bar and smoking, ignoring Jake and grooving his body a little to the pounding music. There’s a girl coming onto him real damn hard, one of the shiny, drunk kids, and Max is completely indulging her. She’s less than half Jake’s age and plastered to Max’s side, her tits pressed to his arm as she shouts close to his ear to be heard over the music. She’s blonde and very beautiful in a hard way, the way some Russian gals have. The sort of face that ages fast and not well.

 

Max tips his head way back, exposing his neck, and blows a stream of smoke high into the air where it catches in the flashing colored lights. He laughs suddenly at something the girl has just said, his laugh full and throaty and easy. It pings against the _thing_ from the other night, still fresh and raw and deep, and Jake just has to look away.

 

He should go. Just leave Max here with these young people. Go home, go to bed, not wait up. He’d prefer to leave _with_ Max, of course – surely Max can ignore him just as easily at home on the couch.

 

Jake finishes off his beer in one last long gulp and thumps the empty glass on the bar top, very near Max’s elbow, trying to get Max’s attention. It works, sort of. Max looks right at him and Jake stares back, his gaze flat but knowing Max knows what he’s thinking – _let’s go_. The corner of Max’s mouth ticks up just the littlest bit and, looking right at Jake, Max says to the girl, “Let’s go dance, sweetheart.” Jake narrows his eyes at Max, trying to figure out what his game is, but says nothing, just watches Max get dragged out onto the dance floor by the shiny blonde girl.

 

Jake watches Max and the blonde girl move together to the music. Max watches him watch them move together. Making _sure_ he’s watching, Jake reckons. All part of the game, it seems. The girl is twisting and turning against him and staying pressed against his body, shamelessly rubbing her ass into Max’s crotch, shamelessly rubbing her tits against his chest. She’s working hard, that’s for sure, and Max sure isn’t discouraging her. Jake has to wonder how far Max is going to take this game. He gets his answer a moment later.

 

Max looks at him, still making sure he’s watching, and then pulls the blonde girl closer and kisses her. Something sharp and hot flares in Jake’s chest, squeezing tight. The girl grips Max’s collar and Max’s hands are on the girl and they start to properly snog right there on the dance floor, all open mouths and teeth and tongues. Jake watches, the way one would watch a car crash, frozen. When Max opens his eyes and looks at him again, still with his tongue down the girl’s throat, Jake sees the hard, challenging look there. This isn’t a game, Jake realizes. It’s a test.

 

What happened the other night, Jake didn’t mean for it to happen. He didn’t think it through, he just _reacted_. An impulse. In the moment, as they say. And not like him at all, really. Jake is nothing if not calculating. But the two of them had been in bed and fucking, spooned on their sides and moving together, their rhythm perfect, their sweat and their groans mingling, Jake’s cock buried deep in Max’s tight ass, Jake’s hand working Max’s heavy cock. They’d come together like that, Jake spilling hot and hard inside Max, Max spilling hot and hard in Jake’s hand. They’d never come together at the same time before and Max had laughed in that full and throaty and easy way, sounding so complete and _happy_ , and he’d taken Jake’s hand, twining their fingers together, pressing their hands against his hard chest. Jake was catching his breath, feeling overwhelmed and, for the first time in a long time, just as happy as Max sounded. His face and his mouth had been pressed against the back of Max’s sweaty neck, and that’s when he’d done it, that’s when he’d breathed, “God I love you,” into Max’s skin.

 

Max’s body had gone completely still and rigid against Jake’s body and Jake knew immediately he’d fucked up.

 

Max didn’t say anything and didn’t say anything and didn’t say anything. Neither did Jake. He couldn’t.

 

They lay there in silence, both frozen, for what seemed like an hour but what was probably only half a minute. Then Max pulled away and got out of bed, his back to Jake, and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

 

Jake had rolled onto his back, not bothering to clean up. He’d listened to the sound of the shower turning on and running and he silently berated himself. What the fuck had he done? He could hardly blame Max for reacting that way. Since fleeing the UK nine months ago, they were on the run together, fugitives together, partners in crime together, and, since leaving Oslo, fuck buddies. But that was it, that was all. Yes, they only fucked each other, didn’t seek out other company, but all of that was born out of necessity and sadness and loneliness and, most of all, convenience. A marriage of convenience. _Love_ wasn’t a thing in a life like this, between men like them.

 

When the shower turned off, he’d rolled onto his side, to the edge of the mattress, and pretended to be asleep when Max came back into the room. He’d listened, wondering what Max was going to do, and was mildly surprised when he got back into bed. But Max hadn’t touched him, just settled on his side of the bed. Plenty of space between them. Jake had listened to Max breathe, how it slowed as he fell asleep, his light snore. Jake hadn’t slept much that night.

 

Now, tonight, Max and the blonde girl come off the dance floor and back to the bar, that challenging look still in Max’s eyes. The girl is talking in his ear again and Max has an arm around the girl’s waist, squeezing her close and looking at Jake as he says to her, “This is my flatmate, by the way.”

 

That sharp and hot thing squeezes his chest again. _Fucking asshole_. But this is the test, right? See just how hard he can push before Jake puts his fist through his face, right?

 

The blonde girl looks at Jake, a bit disinterestedly. “Hi,” she says, offering a vague smile.

 

He straightens up to his full height, stiffening his spine. “Good evening, madam,” he answers politely, giving her a small, rigid bow, like he’s meeting the Queen, calling up all his best British boarding school manners. That seems to impress her a little, her smile turning bemused.

 

Max licks his lips and says something in the girl’s ear, which she seems to like because she immediately kisses Max. Max pulls back and grins at her, sliding a hand down her back enticingly. “You don’t mind if he watches, right?” Max asks her, nodding toward Jake.

 

That seems to catch her by surprise and she looks at Jake. He’s just as surprised, frankly. Max looks at him, that challenging look glinting in his eye. “He won’t touch you,” Max says decisively. “He’ll just watch.”

 

Max seems to be waiting for a response, an acceptance of the challenge thrown down. Not that he understands what he’s being tested on. “That’s right,” he finally bites out.

 

Which is how he ends up sitting in the armchair in their bedroom watching Max eat out the girl like a starving man. The girl is lying naked on their bed, her ass pulled up to the end of the mattress and her legs in the air. Max is shirtless and kneeling on the floor, his face buried between her legs. He’s taking his time and making the girl moan and groan theatrically. She’s rubbing and squeezing her tits, sometimes looking Jake’s way. Putting on a bit of a show, it seems.

 

Jake isn’t really watching her, though. He takes a slug of vodka directly from the bottle and watches Max work, watches the hard muscles of his back ripple and shift. Jake knows how single-mindedly Max does this sort of work, how thorough and eager he is. Jake’s been the naked bitch on the bed, moaning and groaning like a porn star.

 

He takes another slug of vodka and ignores his hardening cock. He won’t give into it. He shifts a little in the chair, trying to alleviate some of the pressure. It doesn’t help. Nor does it alleviate the uncertainty tugging at his guts. He doesn’t know what to expect going forward from this strange interlude. He _hates_ not knowing what to expect. He’s always worked hard to know exactly what to expect, to know all the angles, prepare for them. But Max tends to do that in Jake’s life, doesn’t he? Bring the unexpected. Always has, since they first came to be in each other’s orbits all those years ago, when Max was a cop and Jake was his quarry.

 

Over the past nine months, Jake’s taught him a lot about how to exist on the run and disappear underground. Jake’s not just shared a room, a flat, a bed with Max; he’s shared his contacts, his experience, his tricks, his safehouses, his techniques, his fucking _Swiss bank account numbers_ with Max. Max can make it on his own now. He could quite easily leave Jake _tonight_ and be fine. In fact, Max could use all he knows now about Jake and easily lead the authorities right to him, no matter where Jake runs. He could put Jake in prison, as he used to want so badly to do. Maybe parlay Jake’s freedom into his own. It’s possible.

 

Max doesn’t need him, not anymore. And Jake crossed an invisible line the other night.

 

The anxiety tugging at his guts is the certainty that Max will leave him.

 

On the bed, the blonde girl cries out, high-pitched and keening. Still a bit over the top. Max immediately gets to his feet and undoes his belt, undoes his fly. He looks over at Jake as he pushes down his jeans and the boxer briefs underneath, exposing his hard, red cock. Jake stares back. Max kicks his jeans away and then gives himself a long, slow stroke for Jake’s benefit. Jake shifts again in his seat, getting harder, despite knowing what Max is going to do next.

 

Max takes the condom the girl had in her purse (he and Max don’t use them with each other anymore) and slips it on, both Jake and the girl watching expectantly. Max twirls his finger at the girl, saying, “Hands and knees, darlin’.” The girl smirks and obliges, rolling over and pushing herself up. She presents herself, breasts dangling, and looks back over her shoulder at Max, then at Jake. But Jake only has eyes for Max, watching Max run his hands over the girl’s hips, line himself up, and plunge inside. The girl keens and Max groans and Jake takes a long drink.

 

Max is focused on fucking her, moving slow and languid but with that familiar hard snap of his hips that makes the girl cry out with each thrust. But soon enough Max looks over at Jake again and doesn’t look away, watching Jake watch him fuck the girl. Jake finally crumbles, perhaps failing this test, and pulls open his pants, pulling out his achingly hard cock. He takes himself in hand and strokes himself, slow and languid, matching Max. He grunts in relief and Max licks his lips, his gaze heavy on Jake, and they watch each other, move together.

 

Max speeds up, Jake speeds up, flesh slapping, breathing hard.

 

Jake strains, his hand moving faster, the pressure building painfully. Max’s abs are taut, his strong thighs strained, his round ass clenched tight with effort. He’s moving fast and hard, pumping his hips. Max bites his lip, his eyes starting to glaze over, and Jake knows he’s close. Jake’s close, too. “Come for me,” Jake grunts breathlessly. Max throws his head back and Jake splits open and they come together like this, Max shouting out and Jake groaning loud and long.

 

When he returns to himself, the girl is collapsed face-first on the mattress, breathing hard, and Max is standing naked in the middle of the room, pulling off the condom.

 

The girl sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress, looking wrung out. She can quite obviously see Jake’s cock still out, the come all over his hand and shirt. She looks from Jake to Max and back again. He sort of lost track of the girl during all that, doesn’t know how much she saw, but Jake can tell now she saw _something_ , saw what was going on between him and Max. Whatever that was.

 

She stands, plucking her underwear off the floor, finding her dress and shoes nearby. She straightens up, not bothering to cover up, and looks at the two of them for a moment. Then she shakes her head a little bit and moves toward the door, muttering something in Russian. She’s got them pegged, Jake can tell, and he respects her for that. “Call me,” she says in English on her way out, the heavy irony not getting lost in translation.

 

Jake tucks himself away and wipes his hand on his shirt. Max isn’t looking at him and he doesn’t move from where he stands. From the other room, they can hear the bang of the front door as it swings shut behind their departing guest. Max glances at Jake and some of that anxiety returns, some of that not knowing what’s going to happen next.

 

But then Max steps toward him. Jake looks up, keeping his face neutral. Max hovers there for a moment, but Jake doesn’t reach for him. He isn’t going to try to hold onto this man.

 

Max plops down on the floor and sits next to Jake’s foot, his shoulder pressed to the outside of Jake’s leg, leaning back against the chair. They’re silent and Jake is still feeling tense, uncertain.

 

After a moment, Max leans his head against Jake’s thigh and breathes out long and soft, his body relaxing into Jake’s.

 

“I’m sorry,” Max says quietly and relief floods Jake’s body.

 

And he thinks he gets it now, what tonight was all about, what this test was. It wasn’t a test for Jake. It was a test for Max.

 

Testing his new sexuality. Jake knows he was married to a woman before, was probably fucking that detective lady he was partnered with, the one who died, and has only ever been with women. Until now.

 

Testing boundaries – how much distance he could have from Jake, how much distance he _wanted_.

 

Testing his dependence on Jake. No, his _need_ for Jake.

 

Testing this new life. Jake reckons he felt like he was losing himself, highlighted after what Jake said the other night. He reckons Max was trying to cling to his old life, his old identity, tonight.

 

But now he’s sitting naked at Jake’s feet.

 

Jake reaches out and combs his fingers through Max’s thick hair, grown out a bit over these past months. He keeps doing it, stroking his hair, and Max sighs and seems to settle in even more and Jake imagines his eyes are closed now.

 

Jake had been regretting what he said. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t feeling it, that it wasn’t true. He’s in love with Max Lewinsky, hopelessly and completely. He won’t say it again right now, not tonight, maybe not this week or this year, because he wants Max to say it back next time. He can be patient.

 

TBC.


End file.
